


inahle;exhale

by tobeconvincedoflove



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asthma, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, also Courf is sassy, because Enjolras's lungs suck at life, les amis are good friends, okay that's about it this is basically weird and fluffy, sick!Enjolras, the works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras's lungs suck at being lungs and Courfeyrac will never run out of jokes about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inahle;exhale

At first, Enjolras didn’t know why his body woke him up in the middle of the night. He’d been almost dead tired for the past few days, despite sleeping for seventeen hours between Saturday and Sunday (and subsequently missing much of the latter). So it was confusing why his body would wake itself up, especially with how awful Enjolras had been feeling. It was normal for the average cold to hit Enjolras harder than most people, especially with his asthma, and he’d just tried to sleep through it. But even Enjolras knew he wasn’t getting better—despite his use of his inhaler every four hours when he was awake, it was harder to breathe correctly, and even when he was awake he was disoriented, and he just kept feeling colder—but he’d stubbornly shut Combeferre down every time he suggested going to a doctor. 

Now, he was mildly regretting his decision, when he realized why he’d woken up. It was impossible to breathe; every attempt at a breath sent a sharp pain into his chest, and he could feel it constrict with every heave. But this wasn’t an asthma attack. Enjolras _knew_ what those felt like, even the bad ones that resulted in a few nights in the hospital, and this wasn’t like that. There was a scraping sound coming out of his lungs, and he was coughing violently, sending chunks of mucus into his hand. 

Enjolras expected the fit to end relatively quickly, because it wasn’t asthma-related, until his throat decided to constrict on him, and the short breaths became even shorter as his bronchioles dilated. Great. Just fucking great. There was an asthma attack on top of… whatever this was. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind that wasn’t focusing on trying to get some oxygen into his lungs (no matter how painful it was), Enjolras knew he needed help. He was too dizzy to find his inhaler in his drawer, and if he didn’t get it he’d pass out. So Enjolras let out a yell with the short amount of air being forced out of his lungs, praying to whatever was up there that either Combeferre or Courfeyrac heard. They were his roommates, and he would have just pounded on the wall, but he couldn’t reach it and his chest hurt too much to move. 

The action of yelling caused his chest to constrict even more, and Enjolras gave up, the dizziness too much to bear. He was cold and tired and he didn’t even know if his roommates were home and it was too fucking hard to breathe. Luckily, a few seconds later, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac came barreling into his room, slamming on the light. 

“Inhaler,” Enjolras managed to gasp out, hearing his voice crackle as his body tried to force him to cough with air that wasn’t in his lungs. Instantly, Courfeyrac was running to his draw while Combeferre hauled Enjolras’s torso up from where it had curled into itself, trying to open up his airways. 

“Your temperature is way too hot, E.” Combeferre’s voice was scared, despite him being a medical student, and Enjolras tried to look at him through bleary eyes, but it was a blur. That was when the red inhaler Enjolras recognized was placed in front of his lips, and the albuterol puffed into his lungs. However, Enjolras couldn’t hold it in as long as he needed to, as his lungs forced it out and kept trying to cough. Courfeyrac tried again, but there was the same result. Black dots were dancing in front of Enjolras’s eyes as he was lowered back onto his bed. 

“—need to take him to the hospital,” he heard Courfeyrac say. “Should we even drive him?” His friend’s voice was panicky, and that was when Enjolras knew how bad this was. He’d known his two best friends as long as he’d had asthma, and they’d witnessed more times than he could count how badly Enjolras lungs sucked at being lungs. 

“No. He needs an ambulance. Keep trying the inhaler,” was Combeferre’s response, before Courfeyrac was by his side, carding his fingers through his hair as Combeferre ran to the phone. It was getting harder to hear, and Enjolras wanted nothing more than to just pass out. There wasn’t even enough air to wheeze anymore. 

“Come on, E, just stay awake for me,” Courfeyrac begged, his face appearing above Enjolras’s as the inhaler was placed against his lips once more. “I know you feel awful but you need to try to keep breathing.” Enjolras tried his best to give Courfeyrac a ‘did you really just say that’ look, but it was ruined when his lungs rejected the drugs again, instead continuing to cause his chest muscles to heave with the effort of breathing. “Yes I know how stupid that was to say. Shut up and tell your lungs to stop demanding vacation time.” 

Enjolras was pretty sure his friend said something else, but then there was a roar like a plane taking off next to his head, and he finally stopped coughing. And he got to go back to sleep. 

 

****

*

When Enjolras blinked his eyes open again, he was in the back of the ambulance. There was an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and the line in his arm told him they’d forgone a nebulizer that he could inhale, instead using a cannula to insert the drugs directly. Probably smart. He could hear the hiss of compressed oxygen, though, and eventually the noise was loud enough to clear some of the fog around his brain. It was still hard to breathe, and he coughed, trying to curl into himself. However, multiple sets of hands kept him lying flat, one of which he recognized from the moth tattoos.

“Combeferre,” he ground out around the coughs, seeing the slightly red mucus in the mask. 

“Don’t try to talk, E,” his friend replied immediately, taking Enjolras’s hand in his own. Immediately, one of the paramedics began to talk to Enjolras, explaining how they had him on a very high amount of oxygen, but his sats were still in the low 70’s. 

“Have you been feeling bad the past few days?” one asked, and Enjolras nodded. 

“Have you been taking your inhaler, and your medications?” Again, Enjolras nodded. Was it mostly because of Combeferre? Yes, but that was irrelevant. 

“Have you been tired lately? Disoriented?” Two nods. 

“Okay. Thank you, Enjolras.” 

“What’s happening?” Enjolras asked. He knew this was worse than just a severe attack (though those sucked too, 0/10 would not recommend). However, he couldn’t say the words without violently coughing again. Except this time, the coughing wouldn’t stop, and he felt his chest go crazy, the little good the drugs were doing disappearing in an instant. 

“Hang on, E, we’re almost at the hospital,” Combeferre called, his hand squeezing Enjolras’s. Normally, that would ground him, but it was too hard to keep breathing with the heaviness in his chest and the drugs weren’t working and it was fucking terrifying suffocating. 

So Enjolras just tried to keep breathing, but he knew he slipped in and out of consciousness. After a particularly long blink, he could feel the stretcher being hurried out of the ambulance, the wheels rattling against the floor of the hospital as doctors or nurses or just people started talking very loudly (but not words). 

After a particularly painful cough, Enjolras closed his eyes again. 

 

****

*

In the waiting room, Courfeyrac was waiting for Combeferre, having driven the car to the hospital instead of riding in the ambulance with his friend. Despite this being no less than the tenth time Enjolras’s asthma resulted in a severe attack, it wasn’t any less scary than the first time.

How could it not be? He’d woken up to a scream coming from Enjolras’s room, and then ran in to see Enjolras with blue-ish lips and a weird mix of a wheeze and crackle, the oxygen struggling to get past his lips. Still, he’d hoped that the inhaler would help, but when it was clear the puffs weren’t working the real fear set in. 

Even when the paramedics arrived, picking up his best friend and immediately snapping an oxygen mask over their friend’s face and carrying him out to the waiting ambulance, the fear hadn’t receded. Because there was something different. 

Enjolras shouldn’t have been coughing up mucus stained with blood. Courfeyrac didn’t have time to dwell on the matter, though, because Combeferre collapsed in the chair next to him. 

“Did he wake up?” was the first thing Courfeyrac asked. 

“Yeah, but he was hardly lucid,” Combeferre answered, his head in his hands. Despite his dorky hulk pajama pants (compliments of Courfeyrac), his worry looked intimidating when observing the combination of tattoos and broad figure. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, was in a sweatshirt and jeans, and looked mostly tired. 

“I tried calling his parents,” Courfeyrac added, shaking his head. “They’re in Singapore or something… left their cellphones at home.” 

“What about the rest of Les Amis?” Combeferre asked. When Courfeyrac shook his head, Combeferre sighed. 

“It’s now almost three o’clock in the morning. Should we let them sleep before calling?” he debated, looking to his friend for help. There were already dark circles that marked how tired Courfeyrac was under his eyes, and he had a spectacular case of bedhead. 

“I don’t know. How… how dangerous is this?” Courfeyrac’s voice shook with fear, looking to Combeferre for answers. Combeferre always had the answers. 

“They’re trying to figure that out now; he’s going in for a chest x-ray. They think it’s bacterial pneumonia, which spurred the asthma attack,” Combeferre explained carefully. “They’re going to start the normal steroids to help with the asthma, as well as up the nebulizer a bit and pray that it takes care of the asthma end of things.” 

“Jesus. How did he get pneumonia without any of us noticing?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice quiet and the shaking transferring to his hands. “He’s going to be okay, though, right?” 

“I don’t know, Courf,” Combeferre answered honestly. “Pneumonia is tricky, especially with asthma, and the fact that he got it despite being a healthy twenty-three-year-old isn’t a good sign. He’ll probably be in the ICU if they diagnose it, at least until they get him breathing better.” 

“I’ll call the others.” There was resignation in Courfeyrac’s voice, as Combeferre wrapped an arm around his friend. “It looks like we’re going to have another talk with Enjolras about his lungs and their desire to be holey balloons again.” 

“That line stopped being funny when we were twelve, Courf,” Combeferre said, laughing a little. “Time to start the call chain?” 

“I’ll face Cosette’s wrath if you handle Bahorel.” 

“Deal.” 

 

****

*

When Enjolras woke up, it was to the steady beeping of machines. Immediately, he started coughing, setting off the monitors as his heartbeat rose and his breathing rate took a hit. The oxygen mask was still in place, and it felt like it took up 90% of Enjolras’s face, so he pulled it up, leaning over to cough up the mucus. When it was over, he noticed his chest was a little bit less tight, but it was still painful and breathing was difficult.

Gently, a hand placed the mask back over Enjolras’s mouth and nose, and Enjolras made a guess that it was either Combeferre or Courfeyrac; they were both listed as his emergency contacts, but only one person was allowed in the ICU (which was where Enjolras knew he was) at night. 

“Hey,” the voice said, and Enjolras knew it was Courfeyrac. “Don’t you dare try to talk right now, dumbass.” 

“It’s fine. Breathing is easier,” Enjolras replied anyway, causing Courfeyrac to push his head to face the other way. 

“Like hell it is. Guess who managed to get themselves a nice, severe case of bacterial pneumonia? And a simultaneous severe asthma attack?” Courfeyrac’s voice was falsely cheerful. 

“I guess that means I’m on the good drugs,” Enjolras replied blearily, becoming acutely aware of how fast his heart was beating. He hated those steroids, and he knew he wasn’t going to go back to sleep again anytime soon, with how wired he now was. 

“All brought to you by your friendly neighborhood cannula,” Courfeyrac confirmed. It was then that Enjolras tried to sit up, but was held down by his friend. “Not so fast, Super-Lung. Doc said to keep you flat on your back, for the pneumonia.” 

“Do you spend your life making jokes about my sucky lungs?” Enjolras wheezed, pushing the mask up off of his mouth so he could talk to his friend. 

“I wouldn’t have to if they just did their damn job. Your normal lung-saver Doctor Laura is rather peeved that you let it get this bad, by the way.” Courfeyrac was intimately acquainted with Enjolras’s doctors, especially considering the handful of sever issues he’d had since they’d started university in this city. 

“I took my meds, and used my inhaler. I just thought it was a cold,” Enjolras defended himself, but at that moment his lungs decided to check out again, and he was set off into an attack that wasn’t just coughing. Immediately, Courfeyrac hit the red call button and cleared the room to avoid the swarm of doctors. After a few minutes, he was let back into the room, where Enjolras was still awake, the mask firmly back over his mouth. And looking rather peeved about it. 

“Did they give you more drugs?” Courfeyrac asked, poking the arm with the cannula taped under his skin. 

“Yeah… a sedation to counteract the steroid’s effect on my adreneline,” Enjolras replied, smiling slightly dopily at Courfeyrac. “Did you tell the others already?” 

“Yes. There’s an impressive colony of pajama-clad university students in the waiting room,” Courfeyrac replied cheerfully. 

“You didn’t need to. It’s no big deal—“ 

“You’re in the ICU—“

“It’s happened before—“

“You’re really sick—“

“Don’t want to worry—“

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac half-yelled, and his friend was finally silent. “We are worried, and pneumonia isn’t ‘no big deal’. People die from it, and if you hadn’t had the asthma attack you wouldn’t have been treated and it could have ended very badly.” 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras wheezed out, rubbing at his chest a little. “Am I being moved out of ICU soon, though?” 

“Maybe tomorrow, depending on how your oxygen levels are and all that jazz. Don’t worry about that, though, mon ami. Focus on getting better.” There was a pause, in which Courfeyrac stood up, and placed a kiss on Enjolras’s forehead. “I’m switching with ‘Ferre right now, and when he comes in you better be sound asleep.” 

“I’ll try,” Enjolras muttered, but then Courfeyrac pointed a finger at Enjolras’s lungs.

“You be good now, ya hear?” he told them, before exiting the room. Enjolras had to repress, because laughing lead to coughing which felt like Satan himself was ripping apart his throat and lungs. 

But the sedative was only succeeding in making Enjolras want to sleep, not the actual sleeping bit. The steroids were causing his heart to pump hard and fast, and he quietly waited for Combeferre. He hated the hospital; he’d spent more time in the ICU or the ER than was anywhere near normal, and most of the time he was gasping for air. 

“Courfeyrac said they’d knocked you out for the night,” Combeferre greeted, surprised to see his friend’s eyes open. 

“That’s what he hoped. But the steroids have got me fired up,” Enjolras explained, his voice muffled behind the oxygen mask. “As per usual.” 

“This isn’t usual, E,” Combeferre said, sitting down next to Enjolras. “You’re not in the clear, hence the ICU and such.” Enjolras merely shrugged in response, before trying to sit up. Normally they had the bed almost in a sitting position, but it was completely flat. However, he didn’t get very far before the sharp pains in his chest caused him to cough, and Combeferre pushed him back down gently. 

“I’m fine,” Enjolras tried to say between coughs, but in truth his eyes were watering and it hurt so badly that he wanted to scream. When it was finally over, Combeferre put the oxygen mask (that Enjolras hadn’t even noticed was up) back over his face, lightly carding his fingers through his hair. 

“Yeah, you’re really fine,” Combeferre said lightly. “I was just talking to your doctor. She said count on being in the ICU until your sats are back to at least the 80’s, and considering you’re still at about 72, that might be a while.” 

“Why aren’t they going back up?” Enjolras asked, confused. Sats in the low 70’s were really bad, and that meant he had to be on a high volume of oxygen. “They normally start going back up after the nebulizers.” 

“Probably the pneumonia. Which is also why you’re supposed to stay flat,” Combeferre explained. When Enjolras merely groaned in response, he managed a small laugh. “Sleep, E.” 

This time, with Combeferre’s hand still carding through his hair, Enjolras did. 

 

****

*

Enjolras ended up spending another three days in the ICU, and then another five in a normal room before being discharged. He’d had a really bad case of pneumonia, and hadn’t been able to intake any liquids until his second day out of the ICU. Throw in a few more asthma attacks and it really hadn’t been a good experience.

But now, he was leaving, an unbelievably strong inhaler in hand and strict instructions of house arrest for the next few days. His doctor had had a very strict conversation with Enjolras about not letting this happen again—apparently the fact that he’d managed to get bacterial pneumonia at all wasn’t a good sign—and how he needed to use his inhaler regularly again, not just during an attack. 

Throughout his stay at the hospital, his friends had been there with him. First it could only be Combeferre and Courfeyrac, because of ICU rules, but when he was moved to a normal unit (while he was asleep) he’d woken up to the entirety of Les Amis, plus cards and a bright pink teddy bear from Bahorel. 

“Has the revolution of Enjolras’s lungs been brutally suppressed?” Courfeyrac asked, having gone to pull the car around while Combeferre and Enjolras finished the discharge papers. He’d never ran out of jokes about Enjolras’s lungs, and Enjolras wasn’t sure whether he was amused by them or not. Silently, Enjolras glared at his friend (he was still short of breath, and coughing a little) as Combeferre helped him into the back of the ‘soccer mom’ van Courfeyrac drove. 

The ride home was rather quiet, as Enjolras spent most of it asleep, but the silence was content, peaceful. He knew Courfeyrac used a few more lung jokes, but he was too tired to care. The effort of walking to the car had left him very short of breath, and he was definitely going to have to use his inhaler to go up the three flights of stairs to the apartment (the elevator had been broken for years). 

“Come on, Supreme Breather,” Courfeyrac teased, gently shaking Enjolras and bundling him out of the car. “It’s time for ‘make sure Enjolras doesn’t do anything stupid’, alternatively named movie night.” 

“You guys suck,” was all Enjolras said in response. “I wasn’t going to—“

“The prosecution would like to present evidence from five years ago, when the defendant, upon being released from the hospital after a severe asthma episode, attempted to compete at the state cross country meet, and ended up back in the hospital,” Courfeyrac said, using his best lawyer voice. 

“He’s right,” Combeferre added, stopping in front of the flights of stairs. Steeling himself, Enjolras took out his inhaler in case his lungs decided to quit on him halfway up. Before he could take the first step, though, Combeferre placed an arm out to stop him. 

“You see, this is what we’re talking about, E,” Courfeyrac said, a grin on his face. “You’re not going to attempt that.” 

“How am I supposed to get to the apartment, then?” Before it dawned on him, Combeferre picked up his best friend, ignoring the distressed noises that followed. 

“Shhh, don’t fight it. Just think of the pizza and films awaiting,” Courfeyrac replied. Enjolras gave up fighting, instead leaning his head against Combeferre’s shoulder. “Oh, and Enjolras?” 

Enjolras braced himself, waiting for what he knew was inevitable. 

“Don’t forget to breathe. I know it’s supposed to be involuntary, but it’s you.” Enjolras sighed, before taking advantage of the fact that he was facing Courfeyrac, and Combeferre’s grip on his legs was light. 

“Ow! He kicked me!” 

“He’s been waiting to do that for days, Courf. Suck it up.”


End file.
